“He’s too good-looking to be sinister,” Nate reassured with a wink at Hamish. “Besides, he doesn’t have the right mustache.”
“That’s right.” Reggie picked up on Nate’s cue. “Winchester’s nemesis, Boots Malone, is always twirling his mustache.”
Hamish grinned, tucking Nate’s theory in his pocket. Nate may have been playing laissez-faire, but he heard something serious in his tone.
CHAPTER 12
I don’t think Mr. Schultze is aboveboard, Luca,” Hamish said as he slid into the back seat, meeting Phil’s dead-set eyes in the mirror a moment. He was empowered by his afternoon with Nate and Reggie. Back in Toronto, Hamish wouldn’t have fathomed contradicting Luca for any reason.
“Oh heavens! Is anyone aboveboard? I thought you would like the fact that I am bringing money to this community. To these people.”
Hamish watched the North End out of the pristine window of the car. Kids with scraped knees and matted hair stopped a game of stickball to gaze at its shiny hubcaps and peer through the tinted windows with smudged faces. “We are these people,” Hamish said. “Your mother and father and my father came over on a boat from far across the sea to this new promised land to eke out a life. Just like these people.” He emphasized it the way Luca had, but without the clip of derision. These people. Settling. Redefining themselves. Finding their Court of Miracles in the haven of a city of liberty, just like in his favorite book where Clopin and the band of gypsies hid in a refuge for migrants. Far from the toll of Notre Dame’s bells, beggars who faked injuries by day for a scrap of bread were miraculously healed at night.
“So you ran away to become a philanthropist?” Luca said.
“Why is your office smack in the middle of the North End?” Hamish didn’t want to break his train of thought.
The tires wobbled over uneven stones warped with time and tread until the smoother pavement. Hamish rubbed at his sore neck.
“I never should have let you come. You’re tired and flustered now. You probably just wanted to see Reggie, didn’t you?”
Hamish’s ears tingled. He shrugged.
“Of course! You have a little crush.”
“I hate when you’re patronizing.”
“And I hate when you keep things from me.”
“What am I keeping from you?”
“That woman was not there to give Reggie cannoli. And that man from next door. The land development one—”
“Nathaniel.”
“My office is for business for my club, Hamish. Not for you to listen to little old ladies eliciting your good nature.”
“I understand her. I can translate. This neighborhood is not always kind to her. I should do what I can. So should you.”
Luca touched Hamish’s kneecap. “But tonight no clubs. No baseball games. You can listen on the radio. You need to take care of yourself.”
Funny that coming from Luca. Hamish nodded distractedly. He was still mentally piecing together a puzzle missing some pieces. He remembered how he had once owned a little set of unevenly cut pieces that, together, formed the picture of a sailboat. He always started with the easiest pieces first, working them into each other in a perfect fit. And the lapping water with its foamy milk crust began to take shape. But other pieces, carved and etched irregularly, were harder to fit into the picture’s scheme. Luca was a locked vault and so Hamish would need to learn the combination another way. Having Reggie agree to stick by him was a relief. He tugged at his collar.
“You’re still in pain.” Luca broke his reverie.
“I thought I was going to die,” Hamish said evenly. “I couldn’t breathe, Luca. I couldn’t see except these explosions of color. I was terrified. What do those men want from you?”
Luca gently gripped the back of Hamish’s neck. “I’m sorry, Cicero. I nearly lost my mind when I saw what he was doing to you. I—”
“I know you’re sorry.” Hamish checked his tone. “I know,” he repeated more softly. “But I wish I knew how . . .” He didn’t finish. They were on School Street, the old School House squat in its old brick, City Hall grand and filled with people mulling under the trees and around the statues. Out the window just over Luca’s shoulder, well-dressed patrons stepped out of the attended Parker House doors. Some hailed cabs, others took to the city streets in their fashionable shoes. Such a change from the vision of the North End still impressed on his mind. A different line of music, just as exciting, just as new.
Fidget took extra care with dinner that night: minestrone soup for Hamish and a plate of soft gnocchi. Luca kept the conversation light. Speaking of baseball and bicycles and chiding Hamish to write another letter to his parents. Later, Luca slipped out to a club to meet a date.
“Her name is Louise. She has the prettiest eyes.” He fixed his tie in the mirror in the front hall. Hamish had a clear vantage point from the sofa. “But you’re to stay here and rest. There won’t be business like last night,” Luca assured. “Just dancing and a few too many drinks. So don’t wait up and don’t worry. I don’t want to come home and find massive welts on your palm.”
Hamish smiled and creased a book with his fingers. “I’m going to listen to the game and read a bit.”
Luca moved to open the door then turned. “I’m glad you’re all right, Cic,” he said in a voice stripped of charm or pretension or his usual lightness.
“Me too.”
“You don’t regret coming?”
“I was pretty angry at my father.”
Luca turned. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When Hamish did fall into bed, a million bells tolled in his head and he couldn’t escape the sound. His pajama shirt stuck to his back. His chest panged and blood pulsed. He rolled onto his stomach and tried to fluff his pillow. He cracked open the window. It did little to help. Hamish exhaled. Then he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling in the dark and cursed his eyes for watering. Why did he revisit that feeling again and again when he tried to sleep? He was miles away from Toronto, from the dark corridors of Osgoode Hall. Far even from Maisie who tried to cheer him up. Far from his mother who hadn’t ever known what to say, though he adored her for trying. He could smell her perfume now. Now in this new world where Luca offered a new platter of complications. He touched his neck in the dark.
After tossing and turning, he climbed out of bed and into his mule slippers. He could warm a cup of milk. Or make a sandwich. Retrieve his copy of Notre-Dame from the front room. He blinked to adjust his vision in the dark.
Hamish creaked the door open and wandered into the spacious hall. Everything perfect and shiny and pristine. Like Luca—too calm. How could Hamish still carry the weight of last night while his cousin shrugged it off and went carelessly about his business?
The door to Luca’s bedroom was ajar. Hamish took a deep breath and pushed it open gently with a crooked finger. He found the light switch and the shadows striped with the outside streetlights gave way to light. It wasn’t as ornamented as Hamish assumed. Nothing hung on the walls. The paisley bedspread was neatly tucked into corners, Luca’s dressing gown stretching across it like a colorful ghost. There was a desk in the corner. Hamish tugged on the drawer handle, only to realize it was decorative. The closet was a careful arrangement of Luca’s tailored suit jackets and shiny black shoes. Luca was neat, but there was nothing to give any hint of personality.
Hamish tiptoed out. Then he moved in the direction of the study: another room he had seen only when Luca gave him an initial tour of the apartment. He gently tugged the light switch.
Here, there was personality, just not Luca’s. Instead, a composite of pretty things perfectly arranged. Hamish squinted. He wondered what a room reflective of Luca would look like and couldn’t imagine any picture or decoration that would inspire thoughts of his cousin. Luca liked tasteful things. But Luca was generic. Among art and furniture, small marble statues, draping green curtains, and the polished brass of a room preserved like a museum, he wondered how well he knew his
cousin at all.
Luca the enigma. Luca who could not be captured by the perimeters of a place. Hamish ran his fingers over the sleek mahogany of the bookshelves and wondered what it would be like to step into Luca’s shoes for a moment. Wondered what went through Luca’s mind. His cousin flirted with every woman in the room but never left with one on his arm: just faint lipstick on his collar. His cousin’s office for the first of his many nightclubs happened to be in a building run by a man notorious in the North End for bleeding people dry?
He raved about the Flamingo, but the light in his voice and the smile splayed across his enthusiastic face never reached his eyes. And then there was Chicago, the dog nipping at his heels. And those men . . . the one he might have lost a finger for . . . There had to be something in here.
Hamish inched nearer Luca’s desk. He had never seen Luca at it. He wondered how Luca got anything for his business done in the first place, and the untouched blotter and absence of papers or files just emphasized his doubts. Even the telephone didn’t have the slightest smudge of a fingerprint. And while Fidget could have dusted it carefully, he felt certain that wasn’t the case.
Hamish felt pulled toward the closed drawers like a magnet. But something held him back and he focused on rows of books he knew Luca hadn’t read: alphabetized perfectly and lined up uniformly, their gold embossed titles alluring between the ridges of their binding. And yet none of them had been explored and touched and felt and loved. The realization saddened Hamish, as he rubbed his sleepy eyes and squinted at the titles, too occupied to steal back into his room for the glasses discarded on his night table.
“Words are blood,” his father had always told him. He certainly felt that way about Notre-Dame. His armor. The soft cushion that found his head when the world was clanging and discordant. And these abandoned, untouched words clutched at his thrumming chest.
He had no familiarity with encountering a book and not picking it up, caressing its spine, or teasing open its pages and tasting it a moment: its tangible smell, its musty tang. Its promise of reprieve. He could slip into it and drown in it a moment, momentarily forgetting who he was.
Clearly, Luca had a different relationship with books. They were carefully arranged, a sad mausoleum. He was tempted to duck back into his room and stroke the spine of his Hunchback of Notre-Dame as if it had feelings and he had to offer penance. He immediately felt foolish for the thought. But Nate hadn’t looked at him strangely. Rather, he said, “Everyone needs a safety blanket. Especially in a book inspired by a summer revolution and written by an author who always uses metaphor to really talk about what’s going on in the world.” Nate then compared the experience to the Torah he studied and so beloved, leaving Hamish with a strange sense of normalcy, that he could look up and find himself face-to-face with someone who felt the same way. It was a strange sensation and evoked a smile and courage as he headed in the direction of Luca’s desk.
He slid open the first drawer, its contents neatly arranged in piles. Nothing of consequence. Bank statements. A few telegrams. Ideas for advertisements. Bold, hyperbolic words in Luca’s hand extolling the wonders of the Flamingo. A few unopened letters from Hamish’s aunt Viola. His fingers shook as he looked through a sparse bounty that told as little about his cousin as the room surrounding him. What arrangement? Who were those men? Questions pinged his mind. Not because he wanted to judge Luca, but because he needed to protect him. He needed to know, to plan, to pace. He needed time.
The door creaked open and Luca stood behind it. Hamish’s already accelerated heartbeat sprung into faster gear.
“What are you doing, Cic?” His voice low and steady. Hamish knew Luca partook in several drinks on his nights out, but unlike Schultze or the raucous boys from his law class, his cousin never slurred his words. He was always in complete, steady control.
Hamish looked up, blinked, and hoped his lie would hold. “I wanted to write my parents. I didn’t have any paper.”
“You should be asleep.” Luca crossed toward Hamish, looked down at Hamish’s shaking right hand.
“I-I couldn’t,” Hamish stuttered. “I keep reliving last night.”
Any defense Hamish detected in his cousin melted. “Of course. Poor anxious little Cicero. Your bouts of nerves.”
“This room calms me.” Hamish breathed in the scent of books, ignoring Luca’s tone. It pricked up his spine. “I’m sorry I came in without your permission.”
“My house is yours. I’ve told you a million times.” There was a chill in his voice. His eyes flickered over the papers Hamish had in his hands, mostly unopened letters from Luca’s mother. “I need to do a better job of writing her.” His eyes searched Hamish’s. Hamish nodded. Then he made a display of carefully piling the letters and arranging them neatly back in the drawer. Luca joined Hamish at the desk, opened the second drawer, and extracted a gold-plated pen—one from a set monogrammed with Luca’s initials. Also, a few sheets of heavily fibered paper. He pulled the string on the green lamp overlooking the chestnut desk. “You’re all set.” He tapped Hamish playfully on the head and then turned back in the direction of his room.
Hamish started writing. Pressing the nib into the paper and holding it, the dot of ink spreading while Luca still hovered nearby. Then his shadow disappeared into the low light of the hallway and Hamish set the pen down. Luca had opened the second drawer, and he had found the letters in the top drawer. There were still three drawers and a cabinet unexplored. He told himself he couldn’t feel guilty for helping his cousin. If he could figure out what Luca was involved in, he could help him.
Hamish’s tongue crept out the side of his mouth and he furrowed his eyes. The top drawer on the right was full of pens and scissors and several expensive necessities of correspondence Hamish was sure Luca had just for show. Underneath, however, was a second drawer. Hamish tugged on it. It was locked. Hamish looked around. Really, if something was valuable, wouldn’t Luca keep it in a safe? He entertained often and the men he was with the previous night seemed like the type of men who would stop at nothing to ransack their way to what they wanted.
Convinced that Luca might have something hidden inside—despite his adamant repetition that he hid nothing from Hamish—he was determined to open it. His mother had always told him there were a million and one ways to pick a lock. It wasn’t the traditional advice from mother to son, but she was a private investigator and far from traditional. A hairpin. A screwdriver. A paper clip. The latter seemed to be something Luca likely had. Hamish returned to the top drawer and found a small box of triangular clips. He selected one and worked the wire into a spear, then leaned down and worked it into the keyhole with his long fingers. The wire jammed and Hamish licked the salty sheen of perspiration over his lip. He looked up and around but the only noise was the persistent tick of the clock in the hallway. Hamish focused on the slit in the drawer and aligned the clip until he heard a slight click and felt it in his slightly shaking fingers. He gently slid the drawer open. And found a pile of telegrams. Many were from Chicago, often with language rivaling the voices at the other end of the phone calls Reggie took at the office. His fingers shook. He flexed them, folding his fingers into his palm and then out again. In and out. His heartbeat a drum. Heartbeat, Hamish. He gulped air, tucked the pile under his pajama shirt, looked around, grabbed his unfinished letter, turned off the light, and returned to his room.
CHAPTER 13
Reggie almost collided with Brian MacMillan on her way into the office the next morning. “You’re here again?” She raised an eyebrow. “You’re very invested in the Flamingo.”
“Actually, I came to visit Mr. Reis. The development and housing person.”
“Oh. Well . . .” She waved into the office. “You’re welcome to wait here.”
“You’re the quintessence of decorum, Miss Van Buren. And, if I may say so, quite fresh and alluring today.”
Reggie pasted on a smile. Accustomed to such compliments from a lifetime of knowing men like MacMill
an, she should have been used to them, but this one still made her tingle a little. He didn’t take her up on her offer, and soon enough Nate’s door opened and he smiled out into the hall, welcoming Mr. MacMillan, with a smile over his shoulder for Reggie.
She turned back to a ledger of inventory for the Flamingo’s opening. She had to call several grocers and finalize the schedule with the caterer. She tapped her pencil on the desk and pressed the heel of her palm into her forehead. It was more work than she was used to, and men like Brian MacMillan exhausted her. She buried herself in numbers for several moments, cursing her well-paid tutors and private school upbringing when her pencil tip broke mid-equation. When next she looked up, Hamish darkened the door that MacMillan hadn’t shut behind him.
“Hello.” She hid her surprise as he crossed the room and gestured toward the chair opposite the desk.
“Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” He gave her a half-moon smile that wasn’t convincing. It didn’t reach his eyes. He was flexing the fingers of his right hand in and out and his pant legs were rolled a little too high up his stockings. He must have cycled over.
The clock on the desk ticked several moments. The crack in the window open over the North Square ushered in the mill of tourists and the laughter of schoolchildren. Reggie wasn’t sure what to say, and she certainly wasn’t about to fall back on the armor of small talk from her childhood.
“Did you know that listening to Angela from the third floor talk about her two boyfriends—one lives in Quincy, the other in Rhode Island—while giving herself a manicure is even more insufferable than my mother’s yearly picnic and quilt auction? I bet you didn’t see that one coming.”
Hamish reached into his satchel. “What’s a picnic and quilt auction?” His brow furrowed.
“No. No. It is best left to your imagination. What’s that?”
Murder at the Flamingo Page 12
